


The Kiss

by fleurfeyrac



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Short One Shot, artist Patroclus, its really short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4333847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurfeyrac/pseuds/fleurfeyrac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus and Achilles met in an art museum, it was the best and worst moment of their lives. </p>
<p>(This is a terrible summary, I apologize.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an end of the year project for my Creative Writing class to be put into a writing magazine. I posted this specifically for twitter user @waifumaximoff , a precious flower!

An open room with paintings hanging on every opening on the celadon walls with golden baseboards. Statues stood by every bench in the room, posing with cloth draping's to cover their modesty. His pencil moved with the curve of The Kiss, capturing every angle of the sculpture. Patroclus silently praised Auguste Rodin and his beautiful artistic visions.  
He dropped his head, focusing on the pencil lines, brown curls fell into his vision whilst he concentrated. When he looked up again a man was standing before The Kiss, blocking Patroclus view. His brows furrowed, sepia eyes following the line of the man's body, drifting over every fold in his clothes. His jeans were worn denim, drooping around his hips, a too big iceberg t-shirt, with a taupe backpack slung over one shoulder and a notebook in his hand. His hair was a blonde mop, straight auburn roots meeting blonde, waving at the ends.

  
Patroclus watched him for a while as he dropped his head to scribble in his notebook, then staring again at the statue. The artist began to lose his patience, gathering his backpack and sketchbook whilst walking to the piece. The blonde gentleman sidled to the right, allowing Patroclus to get the angle he needed to finish the picture. The air was thick around them and he tried hard not the look at the man to his right. The scribbling of pencils seemed deafening in the quiet room.  
"That looks really good."

  
Startled, Patroclus lifted his head with wide eyes. The mans voice was smooth and a bit cocky, leaving the artists hair standing on end. His mouth went dry taking in the features of the gentleman's face. He was angelic; his face curved softly, fair skin making his olive eyes seem brighter, a crooked smile with no teeth, and a single freckle between the corner of his eye and bridge of his nose.  
He replied without realizing, "Thank you.."

  
His eyes shifted to the blondes notebook, searching to see if he was also sketching the statue. He was not. Instead of lines and features, there were words and punctuations. Looking back up, the man gave a genuine smile. Patroclus found himself smiling back, mesmerized by those olive eyes.

  
"You’re a writer?" His voice sounded more confident than he felt. Talking to strangers--handsome ones at that--wasn't a normal thing for Patroclus. He kept to himself or chatted with other artists he met in his college classes or in the art museum itself. It was easier for him to strike a conversation with someone he knew he had something in common with. This person was not an artist, but rather a work of art all his own. "Yeah, I'm using this statue as a kind of... muse for a scene in my story. Where the two lovers kiss for the last time as one dies in their arms. It's tragic, really, but it kind of just happened. The story writes itself." He shrugged, a blonde mass bobbing with his shoulders.  
Patroclus nodded, "That's cool, sad, but cool."

  
"I'm Achilles." He said with an extended hand. Nervously, the smaller male took it.

  
"Patroclus."

  
There was an exchange of quick smiles, both facing back to the sculpture. That small conversation bloomed into a friendship with meeting in art museums, long laughs, and large tears. Spending nights in small apartments, drinking black coffee until one in the morning, talking about nothing and everything. Notebooks filled with drawings of big olive eyes and crooked smiles. Restaurant napkins smeared with pen ink describing freckles on sun kissed skin and black curls. It went on like that for years, waking up tangled in each other on the couch, laughing. Sometimes Achilles would come back late in the evening with a black eye and a swollen cheek, Patroclus rushing to him with a bag of frozen vegetables and a few words about keeping to himself.

  
One year later they moved into a large apartment together. In November they painted their living room orange, pushing rollers across each others chest and legs. Wrestling on the couch, orange imprints smeared across the fabric. The next week they bought a new couch that wasn't white with orange leg prints. In January they kissed on new years and spent the next two days sleeping. In March, when the flowers began to bloom, Patroclus became ill. He threw up all his food and began to lose sleep. Achilles took him to the hospital to be tested and waited a week for the results. Patroclus stopped painting and drawing, his easel collected dust in the corner of the living room where the light filtered in from the glass door. Paintings left unfinished, propped against the wall. Though he never stopped smiling; chapped, cracked lips and sunken in eyes. Achilles cried most days, much to Patroclus protest. The doctor called on a windy, cloudy Tuesday; Patroclus picked up the phone. The blonde rushed in, right when he hung up, his sepia eyes wet with tears.

  
"It's terminal."

  
The next two months were spent in the hospital, Achilles rarely left Patroclus bedside. He stopped writing months ago, too busy worrying and crying. A late June afternoon the doctors called the apartment. Patroclus was dying and there was nothing left to do. Achilles got to the hospital with no shoes and his TV remote in hand, panting and bleary eyed when he got to Patroclus. Scooping him in his arms, Achilles peppered Patroclus face with kisses through his sobbing.

  
Patroclus gripped his shoulders and chuckled. He sounded ghastly.

  
"We're like the lovers in your book."

  
Achilles smiled weakly, pressing his forehead against Patroclus'. He felt him slipping away, right through his fingers like sand. Tears wetting his once sun kissed skin, now paper-like. He felt his body go limp in his arms; Achilles began to scream and plead for a response. Nurses and doctors bustled in and shoved him out, collapsing into a heap in front of the door, shaking.

  
Patroclus left the world at 6:15 PM on a sunny, warm June day. The world seemed colorless and ugly, then. Achilles went home the next day at 11:43 PM, going straight to the art museum to the statue they met at. He decided to change the ending of his book. The lover never dies.


End file.
